THE PROMISED LAND (Poem)
The perfect name for a bar,
we all agreed as we made our way
up the dark, wooden staircase
and the thick drawn curtain
to our allotted space,
where writers come to read.
Mondays we’d meet,
order beers and wine, chips and soup
with our discount from the bibliophile
owner who always watched
from the back, by the bar.
Sometimes three, sometimes thirty
would come to listen, and read,
and we’d wait, pages clutched
in white knuckles, crushing carefully
crafted words, secrets we didn’t think
we’d ever actually share—
Especially through a mic!
That waited by the tall table and
high seated chair, waited,
for trembling hands and wavering voices
that always grew strong, and quickened
once the first few words were thrown
out, and forgotten.